


You Get Knocked Down, But You Get Up Again

by shewhoguards



Category: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhoguards/pseuds/shewhoguards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should, perhaps, have been expected that Eleven would not let the insult of being defeated by a little boy stand forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Get Knocked Down, But You Get Up Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrWorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrWorm/gifts).



> Thanks to Nary for the beta!

*

Not everyone who called on Chrestomanci did so with friendly intent. Gabriel had already warned him to be prepared for traps – and he was, he would swear that he was. He just wasn’t prepared to have to deal with them while dressed in a pair of washed-out grey underpants, with slightly saggy elastic, and one sock. It was humiliating, was what it was, and he resented the timing even before he looked around. The tightly curled hair and brown skin rang vague alarm bells in his mind, even so taken by surprise. He had only a moment to think that any calling by Eleven was unlikely to end well, and then, even as he was calling a dozen protection spells someone dropped a silver hoop around his neck and the world went wrong. The effect was as though the atmosphere had suddenly been filled with treacle. He stumbled, taken by surprise, and then there were people everywhere – _silver_ everywhere – bracelets and necklaces, a belt tightening around his waist, a silver collar round his neck.

Of course, it was for practical reasons alone. Of course Christopher knew that – it was merely useful that he had such an odd sensitivity to silver. Still, as more and more of it was clamped on, cool and heavy against bare skin, it was difficult not to feel like a sacrifice being decorated ready for the temple. For a moment he remembered Millie back when she was the Goddess, pale and ill after the parade from the Temple. Was this how she had felt before, being made pretty ready for her fate? But of course, that was only for a day on display, whereas the people surrounding him now – their intentions were doubtless much worse.

It took a moment to even realise that he had dropped to his knees. The physical weight of the silver couldn’t possibly be as much as it felt at that moment, rationally he knew that. Frantically he told himself that it shouldn’t affect him so – hadn’t he gone through most of school carrying silver in his mouth? It took away his magic was all; there were plenty of people in the world who never had magic to start with and still went through life without issues. But since then Christopher had had time to get used to that power and lean on it, perhaps more than he had ever realised, and the fine silver chains felt as heavy as lead as he tried to force himself back to his feet.

He could hear people sniggering around him, sense them grinning as he forced himself up onto one knee. Here was the great Chrestomanci, on his knees and helpless in nothing more than his underpants, and it had taken barely more than a month in the role for it to happen. He should have been more afraid, should have been panicking or at least thinking of a plan, but at that moment he found he was hating them too fiercely for there to be any room left for fear. He thought of Gabriel warning him of the danger of over-confidence, and for a moment quite unfairly hated him too, as though the very warning might have brought this about.

He had almost succeeded in making it to his feet when one of the men stepped forward, planted a hand lightly against his chest, and shoved. As Christopher tripped and fell backwards there was another explosion of laughter from the watching crowd and he found himself reaching desperately for his magic, unable to accept it wasn’t his to access. He wanted to _explode_ at these people, wanted to rain fury down on them and cause the kind of chaos he hadn’t been allowed since those first days at Chrestomanci Castle, but he simply didn’t have power to do so much as light a match. He could feel his cheeks burning with anger and humiliation as a foot poked him lightly in the ribs, and then more firmly. The intent was clear; giving up and lying still was simply not entertaining enough, they wanted more struggling, more helplessness.

He lay still, stubborn anger kicking in. If that was what they wanted, damned if he was going to give them it. They could kick him, or beat him or do what they wished but—

Instead someone must have fetched a stick – apparently even when he seemed this helpless no-one wanted to touch the great Chrestomanci much with their bare hands. Christopher felt a brief spurt of smugness at that, despite his situation, but then the stick was prodding at him – no, not at him, but at the band of his underpants, at the point where he knew without looking that the elastic was old and weak and inclined to break easily.

He had thought himself capable of ignoring them, able to lie still and refuse to give them their amusement, but there were some things he found he couldn’t bear to imagine them snickering over. Without consciously willing it, he found himself fighting his way up again, determinedly clawing his way up from the ground, even knowing that the moment he made it he would be knocked back down.

They didn’t hurt him much. They didn’t need to –or, it seemed, want to. Heavier blows might have rendered him unconscious or immobile, or driven him to stay curled on the ground to protect himself. Forcing him to a state of undress, or worse, might have broken him. Instead they tormented him, never offering him more than a gentle push or a light slap, but never letting him stay on the ground either. Trying to ignore them resulted in being prodded and poked, in his underpants being stretched until the elastic gave way and he found himself clutching at them ridiculously rather than letting them fall, in the stick finding its way between his legs until he yelped in indignation and tried to scramble back up to punch the perpetrator.

Again and again that scene played out, until Christopher was somewhere beyond exhaustion, locked mechanically into a routine of fighting to his feet even despite the knowledge that once there he would be knocked back down and laughed at. Somewhere, dimly, he was aware that yes, this was Eleven, that this was what they _wanted._ Not about holding Chrestomanci hostage, not even about hurting him so much as humiliating him. No, this was about power. He had, as merely a boy, managed to prove the Dright helpless in his own lands, and that insult could not stand. The only correct way to revenge it was to take his power away, to prove to him how little he truly had when it came down to it – again and again and again.

He was too tired to truly notice when the mocking laughter abruptly stopped and the shouts of alarm started. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder, and he punched out instinctively if weakly, grateful to finally have a target come within arm’s reach. And then for a moment the world went dark before he was back in Chrestomanci Castle, surrounded by people exclaiming over him and finally, blessedly, stripping the silver away. Even then it took a minute before he found the strength to look up, and find Gabriel calmly mopping a bleeding nose.

And then it was over, or at least he was reassured that this was the case. Gabriel was kind enough not to mention that Chrestomanci Castle had known he was waiting on stand-by for just such an occasion. Nobody, not even Millie, mentioned that they had been waiting for Christopher’s over-confidence to trip him up. Everyone was very kind, and very concerned for his welfare and Christopher quietly hated the fact that he needed to be rescued and hated more the fact that he suspected they had secretly thought he had had it coming.

 

*

He might have felt better had he been properly injured. Even a nine-lifed enchanter would be allowed a certain amount of sulking and self-pity over an injury but there was nothing wrong with Christopher that a day’s rest didn’t cure. After that he found people fussing around him more of an irritant than helpful and he’d never been good at dealing patiently with minor annoyances.

“Stop being so _kind_ all the time,” he flared at Millie, unable to shake the feeling that he was being handled with kid gloves. “I’m not a little wounded bird that needs looking after. Just let me get on!” He flapped a hand at her, as he would if trying to shoo Proudfoot out of a room.

Millie looked hurt and then angry. She had never been one to stand around being shouted at unfairly, even if she was feeling sorry for him. “If you don’t want to be treated like a little wounded bird, then stop acting like one,” she said sharply. “You’ve got all the Castle staff worried, moping up here—“

“I’m not moping!” Christopher said, stung. “I’m working!”

She made a disbelieving noise. “On what, your wardrobe? I’m sure that’s a matter of supreme importance.”

“Yes, as it happens!” Chrisopher felt himself flush with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. There were things you just didn’t want to have to explain.

It must have been something in his expression that made Millie look at him oddly. “Christopher, if you need to talk about something just _talk_ , don’t bury yourself up here and pretend you’re fine. Everyone thinks—“

The last thing Christopher wanted to hear at that point was what everyone thought. For a moment he seriously considered just vanishing her to the other end of the Castle; something he hadn’t done since they’d both been teenagers (And she’d broken him of it by sending him back whatever had been to hand wherever she’d been sent to and dropping it over his head. The chamber-pot – thankfully not full – had been the point where that little trick had ended).

Thankfully he never had to decide whether or not she would try the same revenge now. Millie saw his scowl and raised her hands in apparent defeat. “Sulk on your own then, if that’s what you want,” she said exasperated. “When you’re done we’ll all be waiting outside your room – along with all the actually important Chrestomanci work that apparently is not your priority right now. Just don’t you dare tell yourself that no-one at least tried to help!”

After that, everyone left him alone for a while and Christopher felt better for it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t have been able to explain that the vital project he had to complete, just to allow him to clear his mind, was regaining some control over the state of attire in which he was summoned.

Clearly a solution was called for, and new underwear was the least of it. He considered briefly the idea of only sleeping fully clothed, and rejected it almost immediately. It would be far too uncomfortable, and besides the clothes would only end up looking sweaty and rumpled. Christopher _hated_ looking rumpled.

No, he was simply going to have to find night-time attire that could be considered slightly more respectable. Something less likely to crumple – silk perhaps. A silk dressing gown would work – but no, that on its own was not enough, even if he slept in it. He still had to wash at some point, which meant there was going to have to be an enchantment that snapped into play _before_ he arrived anywhere. And considering how often he got called away he was going to need more than one – damned if he was going to get caught wearing some grubby old thing which ended up never getting laundered.

It should have been easy, but the summoning spells proved surprisingly difficult to work with. It was delicate work and, pressed by the knowledge that everyone was wondering what exactly he was doing, Christopher was not in the right state of mind for delicate work. When he didn’t find himself draped in every dressing gown he owned – at that point about five – he found himself wearing the sleeves of one and the body of another. And then there was the point where, quite without explanation, he tested it and found himself standing in the kitchen even though he had added nothing which should have caused that to happen. It was most vexatious.

Of course, had he explained to anyone they might have suggested that adequate clothing was not the true problem he was concerned about. Christopher was perfectly aware of that. That was why he didn’t explain to anyone.

*

It was maybe another day before Mordecai appeared at breakfast and tossed a cricket ball at him. Christopher caught it automatically and looked at him questioningly.

“Practice,” Mordecai said calmly. “Or don’t you help us win any more now you’re busy being Chrestomanci?”

He would have been stupid not to suspect an ulterior motive to that suggestion, but the sun was shining and the idea of an hour or two outside not trying to pick apart spells held a certain amount of appeal. And while anyone else might have been suspected of trying to look after their poor wounded enchanter, Mordecai—well, if anyone understood Eleven it would be him. Still, it wasn’t without a certain amount of foreboding that Christopher followed him outside.

And Mordecai did give him the courtesy of a good thirty minutes of practice before he tried to talk about anything. For a while Christopher had nothing more complex to consider than the best way to hit a ball that came at him from seemingly impossible angles – and he was grateful for it.

It wasn’t until they paused to get a drink that Mordecai even tried to start a conversation – and when he did, the way his face creased said that it hadn’t been an easy thing to do. “See here,” he said, “If you hadn’t been trying to get my soul back from Eleven..”

“Stow it, Mordecai.” Christopher wasn’t even going to try and go down that rabbit hole. “If we hadn’t been there for you, we’d have been there for Gabriel. They weren’t going to forgive easily even if he was the only one we came back out with.”

“That’s true enough,” Mordecai agreed cautiously.

“And it’s not as though they hurt me anyway.” Christopher’s careless shrug was well-practised, a gesture that said ‘nothing could be less important to me’. It should have been, he’d been using it since he was a teenager.

Unfortunately, that meant that by now it was nothing that anyone at the Castle hadn’t seen before. Mordecai didn’t even bother to look at him to judge the truth of that statement. “No,” he agreed instead. “They don’t. Not in Eleven.”

“In fact, I really wish everyone would just—“ Christopher said, and paused, not having expected that response. “What?”

“They don’t bother hurting you,” Mordecai said evenly. “Not seriously, not if they can help it. They consider it beneath them.”

“But then, what—“ Christopher couldn’t quite phrase his response, too thrown by that. He thought back, trying to recall Mordecai’s earlier warnings – but then Mordecai had never really been clear what he was warning about, had he? He’d been clear that they were dangerous all right, but more than that.. “ _Why?_ ”

Mordecai’s shrug was pained, nothing like Christopher’s easy gesture of a few moments ago. “You hurt someone and your control lasts until they’re not in pain anymore,” he said quietly. “The broken arm or whatever heals, and they convince themselves that whatever happened only happened because you got past their guard. Wouldn’t anyone react to that amount of pain after all? They take steps to protect themselves better next time, and they get better. It’s not what you want, especially not when you’re dealing with anyone who might already be too powerful for you to control.”

“They did it to you,” Christopher said after a moment, a statement of the obvious rather than a question.

“Soulless or not, you think a child raised on another world adjusts well to the news they are basically enslaved to another series now?” Mordecai’s voice kept that even tone. “Of course they did it to me. They do it to everyone they want to control, and it usually works. Of course, they’re not usually dealing with a silver allergy, but they have the Dright. They don’t usually need one.”

“I don’t understand,” Christopher admitted after a long moment of thinking it through. “I don’t see what they expected to achieve. They only—“ Knocked him down, humiliated him, knocked him down again, exhausted him and laughed at him. But other than that, nothing.

“They made you get up. Again and again, while they laughed at you, until you got too tired to move.” Mordecai too was stating rather that questioning. “And they never did anything too terrible to make you get up, but just enough that you couldn’t ignore them. Or maybe you could have ignored them, but your pride wouldn’t let you ignore them. So you got up to fight—but you never got to fight, did you? Only be knocked down again.” There was no question as to why this was something Mordecai had chosen not to talk about until now, even if perhaps there had been a time when he might have used it to gain a more lenient sentence. He was breathing hard as though running a race, brown skin slightly flushed, words spoken just that bit too quickly. “Eventually it doesn’t matter what they do. You let them do what they want and stop getting up. Eventually you’d beg them just to be allowed not to get up any more.”

“Yes but they don’t—“ Christopher said, and found himself stumbling over his words, his usual cockiness deserting him. “I don’t see where that gets them. You can always get up when you’ve recovered.”

Mordecai looked at him as though he was crazed. “This is Eleven,” he said, pronouncing the words carefully as though Christopher was still a child in need of teaching. “Status is everything. They make damned sure that when you stop trying to get up, _you stop trying to get up._ Permanently.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Christopher said, petulant now, not liking that the feeling of vulnerability seemed to be leaking from Mordecai to him.

“Given long enough,” Mordecai said flatly, “you would have given them your soul. Freely and of your own volition, as long as they left you alone. And there wouldn’t have been a thing anyone could do about it once it got to that point.”

“I wouldn’t have got to that point,” Christopher insisted stubbornly. “They weren’t doing, doing.. anything I couldn’t have ignored if I wanted to.

Mordecai sighed. “No,” he said, voice tired. “Of course you wouldn’t. You would have been the single solitary hold out.” For a moment he was quiet, tossing the cricket ball in the air and catching it. “Last time we were there,” he said finally, voice quiet and calm now. “I was there with a nine-lifed enchanter – two if we ignore that Gabriel wasn’t aware of what he was at that point -- and the living embodiment of a Goddess. All on my side, all ready and willing to protect me. Did you see me stand up once?”

Christopher had more than his fair share of sarcastic retorts when needed, but there were some things it was impossible to snarl back at. Silently he shook his head.

“And yet they never did anything much,” Mordecai mused. “Never broke a bone, never cut me open, never raped me. Just held me down and laughed at me until I couldn’t fight them anymore. And then afterwards, when they weren’t there, I couldn’t rationalise why I gave in other than to blame my own weakness.” Again he threw the ball into the air, eyes following it up and back down until Christopher realised he had no intention of catching it. Automatically he grabbed it before it could hit the ground. “If you can tell yourself a thing will never happen again, that you can prevent it, you can fight it,” Mordecai told him quietly. “But if your brain has already accepted that a thing happened because they are strong and you are weak – you might as well give in now. Your brain has already accepted that they are of higher status. Everything else is just a matter of waiting.”

“I can’t help that I’m allergic to silver!” Even to his own ears Christopher sounded like a whining child.

“No.” Mordecai gave him a sarcastic glance that might have rivalled a few of Christopher’s own. “You’re a nine-lifed enchanter, one of the two most powerful people in the world, but you have one weakness – which they know about. Oh no. Better lie down and give in already, there’s no way you’re ever going to win against that.” He watched Christopher scowl, and shook his head. “If you’re thinking like that then they’re already in your head. It’s up to you how long you let them stay there.”

Christopher made a face at him, but it was hard to argue with. “I’ve been looking at the summoning magic,” he admitted, still sounding slightly peevish.

“Good. You’re not the only one,” Mordecai nodded calmly, and then snorted at Christopher’s surprised glance. “What, you think the rest of the Castle’s just sat around after their Chrestomanci was captured – however briefly – and ignored it? They found a weakness – which fine, not good, but that happens – but no-one is planning to give them time to use it twice. At the very least we want more precise co-ordinates so that if you’re pulled into trouble it gets easier to follow you.” Pointedly, he added, “But of course you’ve talked to enough people already that I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

“I’ve been working on solutions—“ Christopher started to protest, disliking the feeling of being put on the defensive. It felt too much like Millie’s accusation that he’d been hiding – he hadn’t been hiding, he’d just needed the privacy in which to work!

“And so have they,” Mordecai agreed. “The usual procedure would be to try and do that _together_ rather than have two groups trying to alter the same set of spells individually and then wondering why it produced odd results.” He glanced sideways at Christopher. “I gather that quite a lot of people found themselves wearing dressing gowns in yesterday’s round of testing. Something to do with you, by chance?”

That would probably explain a few things about why Christopher himself had so much trouble. At the very least, it might explain why he ended up in the kitchen. “They should have asked me!” he complained, already hearing the unspoken obvious response that he too should have been open to discussing it. “Anyway,” he added, more viciously than he might have had he not already felt himself in the wrong, “I hardly see how you are the one to advise me on this. It’s hardly as though you’ve done anything to protect yourself from Eleven after all.”

He didn’t need anyone to tell him that had been uncalled for. It was lashing out, pure and simple, and as Mordecai’s face creased in startlement for a moment Christopher was already regretting it. He steeled himself to apologise – and Christopher rarely apologised for anything.

He didn’t expect Mordecai to laugh at him.

There was laughter that was forced, in order to change the subject or break the tension. There was bitter laughter, pained laughter, laughter when it was better than tears. This was neither of those. Mordecai’s eyes were crinkling in sudden amusement as he broke into a peal of laughter, finding humour in a realisation until that until now had escaped him.

“Didn’t you know?” he said, the serious tone dropped entirely from his voice. “Ah, Christopher, you idiot. Thanks to you I didn’t need to.” And, holding Christopher’s gaze he casually and deliberately sank down to sit with crossed legs on the ground, leaning back against his hands so as to look Christopher in the face. “You claimed me, remember? Did you think it was just words to impress the Dright?”

Christopher had, in fact, thought just that – when he thought of it at all, which was not often. It had been a clever trick to get what he wanted, but a clever trick quickly forgotten. He stared at Mordecai for a moment, taken aback. “But I gave you your soul back!” he protested.

“And before that, I lied for you for a full day without you ever holding it at all,” Mordecai said, quoting his own words back to him. “And I was believed. Which as far as anyone from Eleven was concerned was proof that you never needed to hold it to claim me to start with.” He seemed very calm about the whole thing, but then he’d had years to get used to it. He grinned again now, eyes alight with inner merriment. “Hell, I hadn’t even tumbled to that myself. I remember feeling stunned that you’d managed to see that perceptively when you were only a kid yourself, and here you are telling me you stumbled on it by chance.”

“It was telling them what they wanted to hear.” Christopher shrugged, suddenly awkward about the whole thing. “You were the one who told me what they would respond to. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Which you used to find the only truth which would have any effect on the situation at all.” Mordecai shook his head, and tried to rephrase. “You’re thinking of it as words creating the truth. It’s the other way around.” He leaned back again, sprawled comfortably on the grass as he searched for the words. “It wasn’t that I became your man by you pointing out that I lied for you. If I hadn’t already been yours, I wouldn’t have been able to break free enough of.. hell, of Eleven, of the hundred or so spells they had me under at the time, of just about everything else in the world to string the lies together to start with.” He gave another laugh, but this one had a fond note to it. “Barely more than a little boy and you were managing enough power to do that, and yet you’re sitting here how many years later and worrying the Dright has too much power for you? I’d imagine the Dright is terrified of you by this point, and frankly he should be.”

Christopher stared at him, and then sat down carefully on the grass. Just because Mordecai seemed comfortable being sprawled down there with Christopher standing over him didn’t mean that he had to stay that way. He tried to run the whole scenario through his head in a way that made sense, letting his face drift into the vague expression which he much preferred to looking completely confused. “This grants you protection,” he said after a moment, seeking confirmation with that statement.

“Mostly the protection of complete disinterest,” Mordecai agreed cheerfully. “They won’t let go of something that’s theirs without a fight, but if I’m no longer theirs.. I might be an impressive enough spirit traveller for this world but there that’s not the kind of power anyone would even raise an eyebrow at.” He waggled his eyebrows at Christopher. “Whereas you – there’s too much risk that if you got it into your head you might decide to bring the whole place to heel. That’s a horrifying idea for them, so it’s much better you be brought to heel first.”

Christopher considered that. “And so if I was – what would that mean for you?”

“Oh, I’d be screwed.” Mordecai seemed to be very casual about that for a man who would clearly prefer Eleven never noticed him again ever. “But,” he added calmly, “if that happens, I’m not going to be the only one in trouble. You’re _Chrestomanci_ now. If we lose you, the Castle falls for a start, and then the world – maybe the whole Series if we couldn’t lay our hands on someone with nine lives in a hurry.”

It was something Christopher had known of course, but there was knowing and knowing. It was easier to take the responsibility of protecting the entire Series when part of your brain was still convinced you could never lose.

No wonder no-one ever truly took the time to squash him for his arrogance, not really. Once you started to lose that confidence, the weight of responsibility would be enough to make any normal person go hide under the bed.

Perhaps he could have got more caught up in the terror of that thought if the world hadn’t flickered for a moment. Christopher felt a slight pull, and for a moment he wasn’t sure entirely where he was. And then he was back on the grass again, except now he was wearing a green silk dressing gown embroidered with elaborate swirls and stars.

Mordecai appeared to be wearing a red one embroidered with dragons. He glanced at it, not seeming entirely surprised. “I do believe they’re testing again,” he said mildly. “I take it that this dressing gown deal was something of your doing rather than the Castle deciding that we all needed more nightwear.”

“Something like that.” Christopher admitted. He went to vanish the dressing gowns back away, and discovered they were stuck fast. He tried to just take it off and found that wasn’t an option either; it appeared to be firmly locked on to his body. Next to him Mordecai appeared to be discovering much the same thing.

Well. At least the spells had _worked_ , in their way.

It was a few moments before Mordecai gave up trying to grasp a cord which twitched away from his fingers every time he got close and looked up, offering Christopher an easy grin. “Do you think we’d better go and help them out?” he suggested. “Or shall we just declare this appropriate clothing for all occasions from now on?”

As it seemed unlikely that they were the only two so afflicted, going to investigate was maybe the best idea. Even if it did mean explaining what he’d been trying to do – and Christopher was coming to accept that in itself wasn’t such a formidable task.

Mordecai was already scrambling back to his feet, brushing grass from his trousers. Christopher went to follow his example and, just for a moment, froze as his body recalled too many times of standing back up to be knocked down again.

But it was only a moment, and then Mordecai was offering a hand to pull him to his feet, the gesture easy and matter-of-fact enough that it didn’t have to involve any swallowed pride to accept it – even if there was something in Mordecai’s eyes that said he knew exactly why Christopher needed it.

Being Chrestomanci might mean being the most powerful enchanter in the world, but it didn’t mean doing it alone. And perhaps, however hard they tried, they might never find the spell that might prevent any chance of Christopher being knocked down – but at least he was surrounded by people ready and willing to help him back to his feet when he was.

 

 

 


End file.
